


Safe Haven

by thatmasquedgirl



Series: Dark, Dirty, Dangerous [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012), Jak and Daxter
Genre: (I am so thrilled that's a legit tag), (well it can't all be sad and angsty), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Moira Queen, Chaptered, Christ there are a lot of tags on this, Double Agent Sara Lance, F/M, Five Years Later, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Humor, I'm sorry for ripping your heart out in advance, Jak II, Mutant Powers, Mutation, POV Felicity Smoak, POV Female Character, POV Oliver Queen, POV Roy Harper, Past Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen, Pining, Presumed Dead, Ray Palmer as Antagonist, Resolved Sexual Tension, Roy Harper as sidekick, Sexual Tension, Sibling Bonding, There are some weird character associations here, Tommy Merlyn is Alive, not gonna lie, there's a lot of angst, underground resistance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-26
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-27 03:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2677007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatmasquedgirl/pseuds/thatmasquedgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver thought the hardest part would be losing the war.  But now that he's trying to move on afterward, he decides that he was wrong.</p><p>Oliver and Felicity finding each other again, this time involving a daring rescue, a shady Tommy Merlyn, and a whole lot of guns.<br/>THANK YOU FOR 1000 REVIEWS AND 40,000 HITS ON TECHNICAL ASSISTANCE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strange New World

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to the playlist for this story [here](https://play.spotify.com/user/thatmasquedgirl/playlist/7HdAvdhFMSo4PwT66qr0GZ).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Roy goes on a mission for the Underground, but the prisoner he seeks isn't the one he's expecting. Prisoner-modified-with-a-volatile-substance-that-could-kill-you isn't exactly at the top of his wish list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, thank you so much for 1000 reviews and 40,000 hits on Technical Assistance. You are fantastic and amazing. I find myself in a difficult position: I’m a writer with no words appropriate enough to express my gratitude. So I think I’ll just say, “thank you,” and you guys can know that I mean that times infinity, to the power of infinity-squared. Thank you.
> 
> Secondly, I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I’VE JUST DONE. I’ve had this idea in my head since I started writing AU Arrow fic, and now it’s finally happened and spiraled way out of control. I’ve had so much fun with it, but it’s still a monster of a fic, and it’s only going to get more intense in following chapters. Basic rundown of what’s going to happen: I’m going to tear your heart out, stomp on it, pick up the pieces, and glue it back together. :P You’ve been warned.
> 
> This story was supposed to be a one-shot, but it’s told in three parts instead because I’m over the AO3 posting limit. The basis for this is Naughty Dog’s Jak and Daxter franchise for PS2, but I’m only using parts of it. Most of the storyline is coming from _Jak II_ and I’m skipping the first game entirely, but there are some _Jak 3_ elements built in because the Count Veger and Spargus things were too awesome to pass up.
> 
> All the chapter titles are taken from the names of cutscenes in _Jak II_. “Strange New World” is the opening video that introduces the basic plot line, and a lot of the first scene is inspired by that.
> 
>  
> 
> **Part Two goes up Sunday.**
> 
>  
> 
> Reviews and comments are much appreciated, but thanks just for reading! :)

Roy Harper has seen a lot in his life, but never anything like the sight before him. He entered the complex expecting to find a beaten, broken prisoner, but instead he finds the man he was sent to exfiltrate strapped to a horrific-looking chair in the middle of the room. It's hard to tell anything about the man under the long hair and beard, but Roy doesn't think it looks like he's breathing.

Which, if this guy is as good as they think he is, that is the _worst_ possible scenario if the Underground is going to win this war.

"Third floor: body chains, torture devices," he mutters to himself as the small lift pulls to a halt, and he drops the duffle bag on the floor as he moves forward. The cells in the back don't look too good, either, and the machine attached to the chair still buzzes with energy. One look tells him that it's the ominous purple glow of Dark Eco, and that is _definitely_ not good. Now he knows why the guy is so important; he's been selected for the Dark Warrior program, and Slade only finds the best for that.

But if they've already injected him, he's also probably dead because Slade's program also has no survivors.

Roy jams his fingers to the guy's pulse point, surprised to find a faint throbbing against the pad of his fingers. "You're a tough one," he can't help but note. "Everyone else Slade's pumped full of that poison is dead. _You_ should probably be dead. Or at least insane, which could still be the case." He rolls the prisoner's head over to one side to get a better look at him, and Roy is surprised to find two blue eyes staring up at him.

The guy instantly struggles against the metal restraints holding him in the chair, and Roy holds his hands up. "Easy, big guy, I'm here to get you out. My name is Roy—I'm with the Underground fighting against Slade." He turns to the control panel, afraid to touch the buttons but unsure how else to get him out. Maybe he should have learned Russian after all; it would be useful in reading the print on the machine. "Now I just have to see how to get you out of that thing."

Instead of answering, suddenly the restraints break, and the prisoner's eyes are jet black now—no pupil, no iris, no white space; the entirety of both eyes go black. "Or, you know, you could do it," Roy adds as an afterthought. He watches slowly as the clearly-not-completely-normal prisoner's eyes turn normal again, and then swallows. "Okay, remind me not to piss _you_ off."

His first words to Roy are a declarative announcement of five words, clear despite the rasp in his voice: "I'm going to kill Slade."

Simple, declarative, and to the point—Roy can work with that. At least he's not some sort of mute; Roy doesn't like to be the only one doing the talking. "I'm okay with that," he answers slowly. Then he takes the duffle from the lift and tosses it to him. "I think you're gonna need some new clothes—you can't run around Starling City in a prison uniform, unless you want to wind up back here." He hesitates. "You have a name, right?"

"Oliver," he answers. He doesn't offer a surname, instead focusing on trading out raggedy, prison uniform shirt for the new gray sweater in the bag. The action exposes a myriad of scars across his back, probably from Slade's hospitality.

Roy goes over to the computer terminal to mine any further data from the systems, only to find it locked. He reminds himself to do the one computer thing he knows so that their resident expert can access the files later, and by that point Oliver is ready to go, looking for all the world like just another Starling City resident.

"Come on, Tall-Dark-and-Gruesome," Roy says finally. "Let's get you out of here so you can go meet the rest of the happy family."

 

* * *

 

Oliver Queen watches the boy little older than his sister charge ahead of him, discussing what's changed in Starling City over the past five years, when Oliver was in his own personal Hell. Roy Harper has a sardonic sense of humor, forged by the oppression of Slade and his regime. Vaguely, Oliver wonders if the changes in Starling since their parents were killed have hardened Thea, too. Then he wonders if she's still alive. Then he wonders about his friend, and he decides it’s not a good idea to let his mind wander of life and death.

Especially not the possibility of _their_ deaths.

Roy slows his pace after a minute when he realizes that Oliver isn’t paying attention, frowning at him as they keep pace with one another. "Do you know anything about Starling? Maybe I can leave out the boring parts."

"A little," Oliver admits after a long moment, unsure of how much he wants to give away to the kid. "I've been in Slade's prison for five years." He looks around at the damage and destruction of the Glades. "I remember the city as it was then."

Roy's eyebrows go up. "Well, you missed all the fun," he answers dryly. "Five years ago, Slade was just a blip on the radar. He wanted the city, and he found a way to steal it out from under the Queens." Oliver flinches at the reminder, but the kid doesn't seem to notice. "First he pays to get Sebastian Blood on the Council. Guy's a few monks short of a choir, if you ask me, but he’s good at convincing people—convinced them he was their savior or something. Anyway, Blood starts pointing out all the things that are wrong with the city after that. Says that it's because of Robert Queen." He snorts. "I was just thirteen at the time, so I wasn't paying attention to politics, but I always thought that was a load of crap.

"Tables turned for Queen, and, next thing you know, One-Eyed Wonder is sitting pretty on the throne. There was a war—violent and bloody—waged between him and Queen's supporters, but eventually Slade won. That's how the Glades were destroyed, how Queen lost his head— _literally_. Moira got out a little easier, though." Oliver's ears perk up at this; he'd thought his mother was dead after everything that happened. "Slade wanted her to be his wife or whatever after dethroning Queen."

He waves a hand and rolls his eyes. "Blondie says it's some sort of shit out of _Hamlet_ —something about lying with the queen to cement position as king." He shrugs, and Oliver wonders vaguely who _Blondie_ is, but decides that it’s not important. "Some of us didn't get a high school education. Anyway, Moira Queen didn't want to be _his_ queen, so things there went nasty fast." He chuckles slightly. "Rumor is that, whatever she did to him, he can't have kids now—a miracle in itself. But Slade wasn't happy with that, so he had her banished—sent to live in that godforsaken desert outside the city."

He shrugs again. "Most of us figure that she died soon after, but me? I think Moira Queen was tougher than she looked. I mean, she managed to take Slade down a peg, anyway. My guess is she's built a nice little palace in the sand out there, and she's the reason why those monsters keep migrating toward the city's defensive walls—even if it's bad for us. Hell, I'd run from her, too, if the story about what she did to Slade is even _half_ true."

Oliver is glad for the brutal honesty in the statement because it doesn't allow him to hope. His mother and father are dead, no question about it, despite what the boy says about his mother. He doesn't mourn because he knew that to be the case the moment Slade had thrown him into into the dungeons. Still, he allows himself one question: "What about the Queen kids? There was a son and a daughter."

Roy shrugs. "Don't know. Rumor has it that the boy was sort of an ass and that he slept with Slade's girl—though why anyone would want his brand of crazy is beyond me—and that Slade was going to take care of him personally." Oliver is impressed at the efficiency of the Starling rumor mill; it's accurate enough. "The girl, though... no one knows. She wasn't there the night everything went to shit, and she's missing. Underground's been looking for them ever since, but Slade went all totalitarian and outlawed even saying their names. Most of us don't even remember them anymore, and the ones that do are too afraid to talk."

Oliver opens his mouth to respond to the wealth of information, but a guard in a red set of plate armor turns the corner in front of them and turns his plasma gun on them. "Everyone in this sector is under arrest for harboring fugitives," the guard tells them in a robotic voice. "Surrender and die."

Oliver stares at the guard in confusion before asking Roy, "Doesn't he mean, 'Surrender _or_ die'?"

Roy frowns. "Not in this city," is his dry response. "We need to get back to the boss, and we don't have time for this shit." He flashes a gun from the pocket of his hoodie. "You feel like some payback, big guy?"

Oliver doesn't answer, only pulls the plasma gun out of the guard's hand and then elbows him in the face before disconnecting the cartridge. Roy whistles in response, then fires the gun over Oliver's shoulder at another guard. "I have an extra," Roy says, offering him a second pistol, but Oliver shakes his head. He doesn't use guns.

That's a rule he's not going to break.

It doesn't take long to radio in backup, and suddenly they're looking at a swarm of several guys. Oliver makes sure to protect the kid from any damage, but he takes several shocks from the stun guns that don't seem to be powered up high enough to zap him into unconsciousness. He snaps one of the guard's necks, using him as a shield against some of the other weapons they're using. He blocks the butt of one of the guns from coming down on his head, then punches the guard to make him release it.

All the while, he knows something is very wrong. He's familiar with getting hyped up on adrenalin, the familiar sensation of a rapid heartbeat, sharper senses, and a dulled sense of pain (which helps because he's pretty sure his ribs are cracked). But something is different; his heart is beating more rapidly than usual, and he can feel it in his throat, in his fingers. Then excruciating pain shoots through him, and everything goes completely black. It's not unconsciousness because he's still very alert, but his awareness of his surroundings is completely gone, as though he's closed his eyes.

It's all he knows for a very long time, and then the pain is far worse than he the first time. He watches sparks of purple race across his skin when his eyes open, and he's breathing far too hard. Then he sees the soldiers lying across the ground, all not breathing and most of them covered in blood. It takes him a moment, but he realizes he was the one to kill them all—at least twenty, after a new drop of reinforcements.

"Whoa," Roy breathes from behind him, and when Oliver turns, he finds the kid's eyes wide in something between awe and fear. "That was cool," he adds finally. "Think you can do it again?"

Oliver frowns at the sparks of purple still traveling along the lines of his veins, his muscles screaming in protest against whatever the hell just happened to them. It takes him a moment, but the memories start flooding back: black claws, long teeth sitting oddly in his mouth, and _death_.

It's been a long time since he's killed, and it weighs heavier on his conscience this time.

But he doesn't think about that—not yet, not with everything so fresh in his mind. "Something's wrong," he finally says to Roy, even though speech is painful and his voice is raspy with the effort. "Slade did something to me back there, injected me with something." He looks at Roy helplessly. "I can't control this."

"The Dark Warrior program," Roy offers finally. "It was Slade's master plan to destroy the Underground once and for all. Eco is the source of life and all that shit, right? With all of its various forms—Blue Eco for motion, Red for strength, Yellow for power, and Green for healing. But then there's Light Eco, the basis for all life, and then Dark Eco, the energy of destruction." He swallows once. "Slade... wanted to harness Dark Eco to create soldiers and tools for destruction—human weapons he could control. He's been working on it for the past five years, injecting certain candidates with huge amounts of the Dark stuff to make them warriors." He hesitates. "You're the first one to survive."

Suddenly Slade's words come back to Oliver, and he realizes that the kid is telling the truth. _You should at least be dead, with all the Dark Eco I've pumped into you, kid_ , he remembers Slade saying to him after the last round of torture. His body may not like what Slade did to it, but the dark matter hasn't killed him. Yet.

That has to count for something.

Roy pulls Oliver into a back alley, weaving them between dilapidated buildings. He isn't so vocal this time, leaving Oliver to his thoughts. Finally, they make a turn into a dead-end alleyway, and Oliver tenses because he's been ambushed in one too many alleys like this one. Roy seems unperturbed by this, motioning Oliver forward with a careful hand.

He motions to a block of graffiti on the wall of the abandoned alleyway, and Oliver faintly recognizes the emblem: a bow nocked with an ornate arrow, painted in shades of green. It strikes him for a moment how beautiful it is, and how powerful. He'd sworn that the city's downfall would be the end of his hero days, but fate, it seems, has other plans. But the symbol is clear and, when Roy pulls the wall back to reveal a hidden passageway, Oliver realizes that the Underground is using it as _their_ symbol of hope.

The city still remembers him, then, even if not by name.

The stairway is narrow and dark, opening up into what appears to be a mix between a war room and a barracks. Bunk beds line the walls by the entrance, while a mess of maps and papers cover the table in the back. Another hallway leads down from it, and Oliver thinks it might be a city underneath Starling itself, a safe haven for everyone oppressed by Slade and ready to stand for it.

A man stands in the middle of the room, pouring over the papers with an expert eye. He's old for a Starling City resident now (based on what Roy has said, people in the Glades don't exactly have a good life expectancy), and his hair is graying at the temples. It sticks up at odd angles and he looks to disheveled to have slept in the past twenty-four hours, but there's no doubt that this man is the one in charge.

He looks up when Roy walks in, though his eyes study both men. Oliver thinks he looks somewhat familiar, but he can't place the face—not after five years in prison and five years of hard living for the other man. "Well, you managed to get one right, Harper," the man says in a gruff, raspy voice. "Miracles do happen."

"Bite me, Lance," the kid answers, and Oliver places the name immediately. Quentin Lance, former head of the family guard. He's older now and the time hasn't agreed with him, but it's definitely him. "You ordered Prisoner 5862, and you got him. By the way? Slade's Dark Warrior program? It works." Lance's eyebrows go up in concern. "But the lucky guy who survived all the Dark Eco treatments hates Slade more than we do, so it's all good." Roy slaps Oliver's arm with the back of his hand. "Isn't that right, buddy?"

Lance moves forward to study Oliver before finally extending a hand that the heir to a crumbling city shakes firmly. "Good to have you back, Oliver," he says after a long moment. "No matter how." He motions to a locked safe. "I managed to find your gear in the ruins of Merlyn’s old club after the quake in the Glades. It was intact, so I saved it for you." Oliver studies him for a moment, but the older man shrugs. The use of the singular instead of plural doesn’t escape him; Oliver told _two_ people of his secret.  “You survived a whole lot worse than Slade Wilson. Didn’t think he’d be the one to break you.”

Oliver chooses to talk about a more important subject. "Where's Thea?" he asks quietly. Lance was the one responsible for her, and the last thing he remembers of his sister is her screaming as Lance hauled her—and his own daughters—out of the palace. Oliver wasn't so quick, but it didn't matter because he always knew his sister would be safe.

"Thea?" Roy asks blankly, his eyes narrowing. "The hot bartender down at Verdant who passes information to us? What does she have to do with this?"

Oliver rounds on him instantly, and he can feel that same angry pulse threatening to take over. This time he knows what it is, though, so he bottles it up and asks Roy as calmly as possible, “Thea is my sister.” His jaw is still taut, though, and Oliver thinks he needs to improve his control over his anger.

Apparently Roy isn't too sure about his tenuous control, either, because he swallows loudly. "Sorry, man—I didn't know she was off-limits," he answers after a long moment, and Oliver decides that's good enough for now.

He rounds on Lance as the last part of Roy's statement comes back to him. "You have her helping the Underground?" he asks, trying to keep his composure—trying to keep the monster back. "Do you realize how dangerous that is for her? If Slade gets to her, he _will_ kill her. She should be lying low and staying quiet until I can kill the son of a bitch." His voice turns dark at the end, the words more snarl than statement.

If the venom in his voice bothers Lance, he doesn't show it. "That's what I told her," he states flatly. "After Dinah died in that mess, I raised the girls as best I could on my own. But every damn one of them took a different approach to this war."

He chuckles, but there's no humor in it. "Your buddy Merlyn is in a tenuous spot now—Merlyn Global supplies Eco shipments, so they're striking deals with Slade for the power systems, but he's running some... less-than-legal ventures, too. Most of the deals take place at Verdant, so Thea went to work for him so she could pass us information." He crosses his arms. "Laurel went the other way—she's one of Blood's legal eagles, and she's in charge of the task force working to shut down what's left of this resistance." A deep sigh comes from him. "And Sara is in the most dangerous spot of all of them—she worked her way up to a Krimson Guard captain, and she feeds information from the throne room itself."

His eyebrows knit together. "So I'm sorry if your sister is in danger, Oliver, but all of us have something at stake here. Yeah, if Slade catches her, he'll kill her. But if he catches Sara, if she gets cocky, it'll be worse." Lance's eyes turn tortured. "He'll let her live."

Oliver knows what he's saying—they all have it rough. Nothing is going to be safe until this whole thing is over and the throne is occupied by someone other than Slade. And if anyone is going to stop Slade Wilson, it's going to be Oliver—he'll make sure of that.

Finally, the question that has been burning his throat escapes, the one that’s been bothering him for five years: “And my partner?” He says it quietly, already afraid of the answer. He knows that Lance would have sent _her_ to break him out instead if it was an option for them, and there’s little doubt in his mind about her fate in this war.

Lance claps his shoulder with a sad expression, confirming it without a word. “She stayed in the basement of the club that night,” he answers in a quiet tone. “You told her to go home, but we both know how stubborn she was.” The past tense burns, gnaws at him, but Oliver bites down on the emotion. “I left just after you did, and somewhere in that escape was when that induced quake cut through the Glades. The club collapsed in on itself.” He shakes his head. “We still haven’t recovered all the bodies.”

Oliver doesn’t remember anything that hurts more than the revelation—no gunshot, knife, poison, or broken bone has ever hurt the way this does. He’d spent the last five years imagining how he’d find her again, and now it will never happen. Never again will he watch her lips curl up in a surprised smile when he teases her, or listen to her yell when he’s wrong. And he’ll never be able to watch her lie across the couch on slow nights, staring up at the ceiling with a bored expression while twisting a strand of dark hair around her finger absently in thought.

Still, part of him can’t help but cling to the option. “You haven’t found her yet,” he breathes, surprised at how hopeful his voice is to his own ears. Hope is a strange emotion now; in five years, it’s been beaten and stripped from him until he has nothing left to hope _for_. Now he does.

Lance knows him too well—knows how he thinks. “Not _yet_ ,” he reiterates. “But Oliver, I saw that scene, and there’s no way your girl survived, as much as I’d like to tell you otherwise.” He hesitates for a long moment before adding, “Some of them weren’t even bodies anymore—they were in _pieces_. She’s in there somewhere, and she’s better off stuck there than she would have been if she’d lived.” He chuckles humorlessly. “She would have done _anything_ to get you out, and Slade would probably have her right now, too.”

Oliver accepts that after a long moment because it’s the truth. Though it’s selfish, he’s glad that Slade doesn’t have her, that she wasn’t _able_ to go after him. Because, while her death certainly will always haunt him, it’s nothing compared to the agony he would have faced as a man free to roam the city while she rotted away. There’s no doubt in his mind he would have charged into those prisons after her again, probably to his own death sentence. And it probably would have been hers, too; Slade sees people as bargaining chips, and with Oliver dead, she would have quite literally outlived her usefulness.

Finally, he nods to show that he understands Lance’s message. "What do you need me to do?" he asks, crossing his arms. The last thing he wanted to do was get involved in a war again, but fate has other plans for him. Besides, war is the one thing Oliver seems to do well.

Lance offers him something that looks like a smile before unlocking the safe and dropping a duffle on the table. He motions to it, and Oliver unzips it, surprised to find the green suit, quiver, and bow in it. "Get your gear. You can clean up in the back." He offers a sardonic grin before adding, "You look like hell, Oliver."

Oliver lets out a breath in a huff, the best version of laughter he can manage in the moment. "You should see me on a bad day," he responds dryly, earning a chuckle from the other man.

"You should probably go see Merlyn—he'll tell you more than he'll tell us," Lance continues. "Merlyn houses a lot of our guys in the city, so he'll know of a place to put you up, too." Lance motions to Roy. "Take the kid with you. He's not good for much, but he knows this city better than any of us and he can use just about any weapon you can get your hands on."

"I get to play babysitter?" Roy asks, then crosses his arms. "Why do I always get the shit jobs around here, Lance?"

"Because I don't like you," Lance answers dryly. He opens another safe and tosses a gun and a second piece to Roy. "Eco guns are rare in this city, so try not to lose it like your usual arsenal. That's a Scatter mod—" He stops mid-explanation, he and Oliver both watch the kid slip the pieces together in a quick motion, then tests the weight before priming it, pumping the shotgun-like barrel with one hand.

"I got it," Roy says finally, stating the obvious. He studies the gun for a moment before looking at Oliver. "Babysitting you might not be a bad thing if they give me the good guns." He looks over at the duffle bag full of Oliver's old gear. "What about you? You use guns?"

"Guns are unreliable," Oliver answers. "No control." He pulls the jacket out of the bag to unveil the bow, pulling it out and testing the draw. He'll have to make a heavier draw for it, but it will do for now. "Archery is all about control, about making each shot count."

Roy isn't even looking at the bow. "You were the Arrow five years ago," he breathes slowly, as though he can't exactly believe it. Then his eyebrows pull together. "Wait. If you don the hood again, won't Slade know who you are?"

Oliver grips the bow tightly when he answers, "I want him to know it's me who's hurting him."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Three Cheers for Five Years (Acoustic)" - Mayday Parade  
> "Viva la Vida" - Coldplay  
> "Riot" - Three Days Grace  
> "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" - My Chemical Romance  
> "Monsters" - Matchbook Romance


	2. Old Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reuniting with old friends brings back old memories for Oliver. Not the feel-good kind, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, part two. ;) I think this one will answer some pretty interesting questions, and we'll see quite a few familiar faces pop up as things progress. Anyway, reviews and comments are appreciated and well-received, if you're interested. If not, thanks simply for reading.
> 
> And again, thank you guys so much for 1000 reviews and 40K hits on TA. :)
> 
> **The final installment is up Tuesday.**  
>   
>  **07-18-17 Update:** Made some minor changes to this chapter, in terms of wording and implications, due to the plot of "Hostile Territory."

Oliver drops the hood when he steps into the new home of Verdant, Roy on his heels.  He has to admit, the wharf is a better location—right on the water and the perfect place for all of the politicians, off-duty guards, and businessmen to gather after work.  The place smells like smoke and carries the reek of strong alcohol, but it looks everything like Oliver would expect from Tommy Merlyn.  Techno music blares while people dance in the middle of the room, but booths line either side, the bar in the back with a very large selection of alcohol on display behind it.

Not much of that matters, though, because Thea is working the bar.

He’s about to go up to her, but he sees two guards putting up a poster on the wall—one featuring an old mug shot and offering a handsome reward—a year’s supply of Eco—for any information leading to an arrest.  They don’t put a name to him, only calling him an “escaped, dangerous convict.”

He pulls the hood back up before walking up to the board.  He can’t help but smile under the hood at the lack of response to the Arrow suit; no one even looks at him twice, as though they’re used to masked figures stalking around Starling City at all hours.

Curious, he walks up to the wanted poster to examine it in more detail.  The picture they have of him has to be more than six years old, with his hair dyed a light blond and his jaw smooth.  He doubts anyone will recognize him the way he looks now—hair dark and cropped close, the beginnings of a beard lining his jaw.  His features are harder now, his cheekbones and jawline sharper.  His eyes sit deeper into his skull and his face is gaunt from lack of nutrition.  His build is different, too; he’s more muscular now than he was then.

Surprising what five years wrongfully imprisoned can do to a man.

Roy looks at Oliver with the silent question about leaving, and Oliver instead turns toward the bar.  He takes a seat at it and Roy takes a place beside him.  Thea starts working her way down to their end of the bar almost immediately, eyes lighting up when they land on Roy.  Whatever has happened to her in the last five years has aged her, too, and she wears a wild set of curls pulled into a bun at the back of her head, some of them falling down in places.

“Hey, Roy,” she says in a light, almost flirty tone, then her eyes land on Oliver in his green gear, watching him for a moment.  Her tone is more hesitant as she asks, “Who’s your friend?”

“Lance sent me on a mission, and I brought back the man of the hour,” Roy answers with the biggest smile Oliver has seen on his face.  “We’re hoping to clear up this war before to many more of our own can get gutted on the streets.”  He cuts a glance at Oliver.  “And I thought you might want to say hello.”

Oliver tilts his head up just far enough for her to see his face.  “Hey, Speedy,” he offers after a long moment, and Thea’s eyes go wide as she blinks rapidly, looking for all the world like she’s seen a ghost.  He might be a shell of the person he once was, but he’s certainly still alive.

“Ollie,” she breathes, reaching out to touch him but thinking better of it because of the audience full of customers.  He takes her hand for a quick moment, squeezing it before letting go.  “Lance told me you were dead,” she offers quietly, before tacking on, “but I never believed him.”  Then her eyes narrow.  “Does Slade think—?”

Oliver cuts her off before she can finish the question.  “He knows I’m alive,” he answers slowly, “and he’s after me.”  He waves it off.  “But I’m going to get to him first.  Thea, I need to talk to Tommy.”  Roy’s eyes narrow when Oliver mentions the name—not Thomas Merlyn the respectable businessman, but _Tommy_ Merlyn.

“He’s upstairs,” she says after a long moment.  “I think he’s in with a couple of the KG bigwigs.”  She sighs.  “Be careful, okay?  We’ll talk later.”

He pats her hand again before leaving for the stairs, and Roy asks, “So, what are we gonna do?  Because you can’t go charging into a meeting like this.  The Krimson Guard is ruthless, and you could screw up things for Tommy—which will ultimately screw things up for the Underground.”

He’s about to respond when his senses kick in for him, and he catches a bo-staff only inches from his head.  He pulls it out of his would-be attacker’s head, and she stumbles forward into the low light.  As soon as he sees the familiar head of blonde hair, he gives it back to her.  “It’s been a long time, Sara,” he says carefully.  “I heard you’re in deep with Slade now.”

She offers him a smile as she looks up at him, her face covered in blue lines of tattooed ink.  Now that he thinks about it, he realizes that the other Guards in the city had the same markings—it’s some sort of weird allegiance to Slade.  She’s wearing a blue uniform with the Guard symbol on her shoulder.  The uniform top is open, exposing a blood red camisole of some sort underneath.

“I heard you’re in deep with Slade, too,” she answers, “but not in the good way.  He has the Guard in a frenzy hunting you—when we’re not looking for these artifacts he wants that are scattered outside the walls.”  She crosses her arms.  “He won’t tell us what’s happening, but he’s _scared_ , Ollie.”  She leans closer.  “He’s been supplying Eco to the creatures outside the city to keep them from attacking.”  She chuckles humorlessly.  “Well, to keep them attacking any more than necessary to keep him in power.  But something is wrong.  He’s more paranoid since those Guards were killed this morning, and he won’t tell anyone why.”

He’s not ready to tell her that the Dark Warrior program worked, that he’s a monster who slaughtered those men this morning because he can’t control the other side of him that Slade created.  She’s truly better off not knowing, and he can trust Lance to tell her when she needs to know.

Before he can respond, the door handle turns ever so slightly, and Sara nudges him back into the shadows.  “They can’t see you,” she hisses at him.  “They’ll know who you are on sight, and you’ll blow both of our covers.”  She does the same to Roy.  “And you too—they know that a guy in a red hoodie has been helping the Underground.”

They’re barely situated when the door opens.  Both figures have the same set of blue tattoos across their face, but one is male and one female.  The woman wears heavier armor than the man or Sara, and Oliver figures that this woman is the one in charge.

Sara performs a salute, and the woman studies her with dark eyes.  “What’s going on out here, Captain Lance?” she demands.  “I heard voices.”

“Just a nosy patron, Commander Rochev,” Sara answers, and Oliver realizes that this woman is in charge of the Guard—putting her just under Slade in command.  Another face he needs to be aware of, then.  He thinks Sara might have given him the name on purpose to help him.  “I sent him scurrying.”

“Good,” she answers.  “Everything is on schedule—Merlyn is going to get us the shipment before the end of the week.  You’re on artifact patrol—Slade wants to ensure that the dig is running as smoothly as possible and that the workers aren’t pocketing any finds.”  She turns to the man.  “Captain Palmer, the Baron wants you prepared for next week’s race—you’ll be representing the city’s team, and Slade assures me that he has placed a bet on your success.  He suggests you spend the week practicing because the last race was a little too close for his comfort.”

Palmer waves a hand, offers a relaxed smile.  “Don’t worry, Commander,” he assures her.  “No one in this city can race, anyway.  There hasn’t been any _real_ competition on that track since Baron Wilson’s reign began.”

She looks at him with a touch of disdain.  “If you spent even half as much time practicing as you do flirting with that mechanic girl, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation,” she retorts firmly.  Without another word, she starts moving, and Oliver’s eyes narrow with that new piece of information.

Finally, the coast is clear, and Oliver steps out from his hiding place, Roy overtaking him quickly.  “Let me do the talking here, Oliver,” he states, his posture changing as he takes on a role of authority.  “You’ll never get past the guard without me—Digg would rather shoot than ask questions.”  He shrugs.  “Probably a good thing if you’re a Wastelander, though.”

Oliver follows him, even if he’s interested in asking how one survives in the Wasteland, the vast, barren desert outside the protective walls of Starling City.  There’s a time and a place, and this is neither.

When they walk into the office, Roy brushes past a tall, massive man with an equally impressive gun, one with a long, narrow barrel and a lizard-like skull at the end.  However, he knows from experience it _isn’t_ a lizard:  lizards don’t get that big, nor do they have elongated canine teeth and gold gems in the center of their heads.  If John Diggle took down that Metal Head himself, he’s a warrior.  That impression is confirmed further by the helmet on the man’s head and the sand-covered clothing, well-worn and plated with armor on the shoulders.  One of his eyes is replaced with a crimson lens, attached to his skull by metal plating against the cavity.

Roy brushes past him with a dismissive wave.  “Hey, big guy,” he says as he passes, then stops to observe as the man watches Oliver with a thoughtful expression usually not associated with a hired gun.  “He’s with me.”

“Well, if it isn’t the Underground’s mascot of the month,” a cheery voice says from the desk in the center of the room, and Oliver recognizes the voice instantly.  “How is the Underground, Roy?  Still fighting the good fight?”

Roy rolls his eyes and makes a motion to retort, but Oliver cuts him off.  “What do you care, Tommy?” he asks.  “You’re playing both sides.”  He pulls back the hood, then, watching his friend’s eyes go wide.

“You son of a bitch,” Tommy answers, rising from his chair with a smile.  “You made it out alive after all.”  He studies him for a moment.  “And Lance gave you the old Arrow uniform—that has to be worth something.”  Oliver doesn’t bother to correct him, thinking it’s better if no one knows what he’s capable of just yet.  He hugs Oliver, clapping him on the back, and it’s all he can do to prevent himself from running.  Five years of torture makes Oliver programmed to believe that all human interaction is horrible.  “I told you that Slade guy was trouble, but you didn’t listen.”

“Well, thanks for being the bigger man and not rubbing it in,” is Oliver’s dry response when they pull apart, and he’s surprised when a smile falls on his own face.  Something about Tommy makes Oliver remember how things used to be, and he feels a little lighter somehow.

Tommy throws his arm over Oliver’s shoulder, ignoring him.  “Diggle, I’d like to introduce you to my best friend.”  Roy’s eyebrows rise, but Diggle seems unperturbed by the revelation.

Before Tommy can continue, the other man cuts him off.  “No need,” he assures him in a rich baritone voice.  “I used to do some work for Oliver’s father before I became a Wastelander.”  He looks at Oliver then.  “He was a good man, and this city is in desperate need of another man just like him.  I’m sorry that he met his end like that.”

Oliver nods once, unsure if he can trust himself to speak.  It’s the closest thing to a condolence he’s received in five years, and that level of sincerity is rare— _especially_ for a Wastelander mercenary.

Tommy seems to understand that Oliver needs a subject change; hearing someone talk about his father only serves to depress him further by reminding him of all he’s lost in so little time.  He claps Oliver on the shoulder.  “So, what brings you into the club?  I know you’re after Slade.”

Oliver turns back to his friend, frowning.  “I need a place to stay, Tommy,” he answers, wishing he had more time to actually stop and talk to his friend.  “The Underground is out of beds, and I can’t do this while I’m sleeping on the streets.”  He frowns.  “But Slade just put out a nice bounty on me—a year’s supply of Eco.”

Tommy studies him for a long moment.  “I’m insulted you even thought you’d have to,” comes the reply.  Then he sighs.  “I can’t house you directly because Slade thinks I’m loyal to him, but I know a few people who could keep things quiet.”  He frowns.  “But not many who would turn down the reward he just put out on you.”

“Blondie,” says a voice behind them, and Oliver wonders how he forgot Roy was in the background.  When everyone turns on him, he shrugs self-consciously.  “Blondie could house him at the Stadium.  She’s loyal to the Underground and she’d rather die than help Slade.  Besides, it’s a big place and the guards don’t check it because she’s vicious about protecting her equipment for the races.”  He snorts.  “Even that idiot Palmer doesn’t walk past the public garage anymore because he’s scared of her.”  He qualifies it with a, “Well, when he’s not trying to get into her pants, at least.”

Tommy chuckles.  “The only person who _isn’t_ afraid of her is _you_ ,” he answers.  “But that’s because she likes you—and only tolerates the rest of us.”  He sighs.  “I’ll make the call.”  Then he offers a cheesy grin, and Oliver is immediately set on edge because he _knows_ that look.  That’s the look that usually caused their nights to end in a jail cell.  “Maybe I could get you to do me a little favor while you’re here?”  It’s a question but they both know what the answer will be.

With a long-suffering sigh and a smile, Oliver retorts, “Who or what do I have to shake down, knock out, or blow up?”

 

* * *

 

It takes Oliver all of five minutes to decide he’s never doing a job for Tommy again.  By the time he’s five minutes into it, he’s already covered in slime from the pumping station outside the city walls, both from the environment and the intelligent, brutal, Metal Heads, each looking vaguely similar to the skull on the end of Diggle’s gun.  And all for Metal Head trophies for Verdant to “spruce the place up a bit.”

Suddenly Oliver understands why Roy chose to stay behind, within the safe walls of the city.

Even with the trouble they face from the hostile creatures, they manage to make quick work of the job.  Though Oliver finds Diggle personable when he does speak, the man mostly leaves Oliver to his own thoughts.  It may not be Digg’s best choice; Oliver’s thoughts keep wandering back to the fact that the one person who meant anything to him—who actually _knew_ him—is dead, and that he’s now the orphaned heir to a crumbling city.

It must show on his face because Diggle studies him over the gun, cleaning it with the meticulousness Oliver has already come to expect of him.  They work in silence for a few moments further, and then Digg’s voice breaks through the silence.  “You want to talk about what’s going on in your head?” he asks.  “Because I get the feeling it has nothing to do with anything I already know.  There’s something else bothering you.”  He stops in the middle of cleaning the gun.  “If you keep it bottled up, it’s probably going to eat at you until there’s nothing left.”

Oliver can’t help but agree, so he allows himself one last indulgence before he buries her in his mind, finally lets her rest.  There are so many ways he could start, so many things he could say, but the words burn before they even come out this time.  Even now that he’s certain, he still can’t talk about her and death in the same sentence; something about it seems final, and he can’t let her go.  “There was a woman,” he admits slowly, carefully, watching Diggle’s expression.

Surprisingly, he smiles, lets out a silent laugh.  “I’m told there usually is with you,” he answers, and Oliver allows the criticism because it was true of him once—a very long time ago, long before he met her.  Diggle crosses his arms.  “So, did she move on for greener pastures, or did she have your kid?”

Oliver feels a rush of the new, charged rage, but he swallows it down.  “It wasn’t like that,” he answers sharply—perhaps a little more sharply than necessary.  He finds himself at another sudden loss for words because describing her is impossible.  “She was… _different_.”  He means to describe her, to explain what she was to him, but all the words aren’t quite right.  Finally, he decides to go with fact rather than opinion, the one thing that has been clawing at him:  “She died when the city fell.”

“And you loved her,” Diggle surmises, his perception uncanny.

Oliver thinks his silence speaks loud enough.  Admitting that now would only serve to cause him more pain and agony.  The point in time where he could have done something about his feelings for her is gone, and he has no choice but to move forward because he can’t go back and change things now.  She’s gone, and he’s still here with no idea why he gets to live when others had to die.

Finally, Diggle breaks the silence again, standing and leaning against the gun.  “I know you’ve lost a lot, Oliver,” he starts gently, carefully, “and I’m sorry about that.”  He heaves a sigh, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders.  “But all of us working with the Underground have lost something in this war.”  He hesitates.  “My brother died in the chaos.  Roy lost his parents.  Your friend Merlyn lost his best friend and a second family.  Lance lost his wife, and Sara lost her mother.  Even the mechanic who’s so fond of Roy lost something—best guess is her boyfriend was the one who died in the destruction.”  He chuckles humorlessly.  “Hell, even the kid who works the power station—Barry—lost his mother.”

He crosses his arms.  “But, by fighting against Slade and his regime, we pay tribute to them.  We honor the dead by fighting and refusing to let Slade get away with his crimes.”  He frowns deeply.  “We can’t do anything else, so we have to settle with what we’ve got.  So, if you want to do something for your girl, you should stop Slade and take this city back from him.”

Oliver thinks he can do that—and it will be all the more satisfying now to watch Slade die a slow, painful death.

 

* * *

 

In the distance, far outside of Starling City’s protective walls, a woman sits in a box high in the Arena, watching the men below her fight for their freedom below her.  There’s no doubt which man will win, but it allows her to think of something other than her own misfortune.

Once upon a time, she would have looked on at the sport as barbaric and found it brutal, but it’s so easy to see the world in right and wrong when survival is guaranteed.  But once her own survival was in question, she found that no human being has ever truly evolved.  Every gentle heart can become a ruthless killer and do horrible things in order to protect their interests.  Mercy outside of the city walls is only weakness.

The desert was not merciful to her, and she responds in kind.

Despite the way she nearly died outside the walls, nearly died from the heat, the fatigue, and the starvation, she’s very grateful to the empty Wasteland.  The woman she had been was weak, and the desert forged her into the woman she is now, the woman who can survive in a land that kills those who are too weak to live.  She was worthy of life, of survival, and so she makes sure all those with citizenship of her city in the sand—the one they call Spargus—show the same merit and strength.

With the power of an orator and a skilled fighter, she had collected other lost souls like herself—ones who had been left to die outside of the only city she had ever known.  Together they had built Spargus out of the Wasteland, turned it into a place where those who were willing to do whatever it takes could flourish together, a city of outcasts with no home.

Of course, she didn’t do this out of the kindness of her heart; it came with a price.

_Your lives are mine now_ , she had said to the men who had followed her into the city of dunes, _and I will use them for whatever they’re worth.  Only after you prove yourself in combat, in intelligence, can your lives be your own again.  If you cannot do that, then you will perish.  Spargus City takes care of its own, but you first have to prove you are one of us._

After five years, her citizens are few but loyal, and the city is more a brotherhood than a community.  Men who hated one another in Starling still hate each other in Spargus, but now they push differences aside to work together toward a goal:  pleasing the woman they know only as their Queen, the woman who saved them from death in the Wasteland.

She is not a kind ruler, and she has no doubt she keeps power by fear, but her citizens are loyal.  They respect her ability to lead, her loyalty to her own, and so they do as she asks.  Those applying for citizenship by testing themselves in the Arena follow her only because they need her protection from the desolate Wasteland, but it is through that process that they come to understand the brotherhood of Spargus City.

In the Arena below, the expected fighter wins the battle, standing over his opponent with the barrel of his Eco gun placed to his chest.  His foot holds the other man in place, and the victor stops, staring at the Queen of Spargus with a question in his eyes—asking what she would have him do with the man at his mercy.

Finally she nods, and the sound of the gun pierces the air before all goes silent.

“My queen?” a voice says over her shoulder, using a title she finds much more appealing than ceremony such as _Your Highness_ or _Your Majesty_.  She turns around to find one of her more cunning subordinates standing behind her.  The dark-haired woman who calls herself Nyssa stands behind the throne, hands clasped behind her back in deference to power.  “Your spy in Starling sends word of urgent news to discuss when you are first available.  He waits in your throne room.”

Unlike other leaders, the Queen of Spargus isn’t afraid to pick favorites; if she shows her favor with generosity, she finds that her citizens try harder to find their way into her good graces.  Without doubt, Nyssa is one of her favorites.  The woman is resourceful, intelligent and unafraid to express her opinion—but she also knows her place in the hierarchy of Spargus.

But there is only one spy in Starling City that Nyssa does not know by name, and only one performing an important enough mission for her urgency.  The Queen rises from her seat gracefully, taking her staff from its stand beside the throne.  Thin fabrics capable of withstanding the intense heat of the Wasteland swish about her ankles as she does so, and the bronze armor over her shoulders shifts ever so slightly.

But the gun at her hip always stays in place.

“Give word that I am _not_ to be disturbed,” the Queen answers immediately, and Nyssa nods once in response.  That’s all it takes for her to know that her wishes will be respected—and anyone who dares to defy them will be met with the business end of Nyssa’s bow.

The Queen takes her private, connecting elevator down to the throne room, unsurprised to find that the man in question is standing off to one side of the oasis that is her throne room.  “Mr. Diggle,” she greets him in a firm tone, and the man in question turns around to look at her, nodding once in deference.

“I found him ma’am,” is his quick report, “and he’s alive.”  It’s more than she ever could have hoped for—far better than finding a corpse.  “I had the opportunity to speak to him, and he’s going after Slade without encouragement.”  His head tilts ever so slightly to the side.  “Nonetheless, I gave him some coaxing in the right direction.”

She is reminded yet again why John Diggle topped her selection; he’s efficient and capable of following orders blindly, all the while remaining loyal.  In their past lives—in the days where both called Starling home—they ran in similar circles, yet never met.  Even still, he came highly recommended, and she agrees with that assessment.

“Very good,” she answers, knowing Oliver is the one person who can stop Slade Wilson now—especially given his past history for protecting Starling City.  Now, she has no doubt it’s a personal vendetta for him.  “You are to provide support if he asks you.”  She thinks carefully about her next words before saying them:  “If you approach him, he will always question it.  Let Oliver approach you instead—and I have no doubt he will—and then report back as events unfold.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers finally, and they both know she’s revealed much without intending to.  Diggle studies her with new eyes, already putting the pieces together.  Finally, he changes the subject.  “And what about Malcolm Merlyn?  Sources tell me he’s mobilizing the Metal Heads, controlling them somehow.”  He frowns.  “Their attacks are growing more powerful by the day, and the guards aren’t going to be able to hold off much longer on their own.”  He takes a deep breath.  “I know you know the location of the Precursor subrails—the one that leads to the defense systems.  All you have to do is ask, my queen, and I—”

“Malcolm Merlyn is _not_ your concern,” she says sharply.  “You know very little about what Robert Queen had built underground, Mr. Diggle.”  She offers him a smile with no humor.  “Believe me when I say that, if you did, you would find it increasingly difficult to sleep at night.  And _nothing_ in the subrails can help us with the Metal Head problem.”  She studies him carefully.  “Malcolm’s death, however, would at least... _slow_ their progress.”

She waves her hand as she turns away, toward one of the windows to look at the slowly darkening sky.  “This planet has more pressing problems than the Metal Heads, but first we need Starling City in the hands of someone... more willing to work with us.  A united front, as it were.”  She turns to find Diggle staring at her expectantly, and she dismisses him with a single, “I expect weekly reports, Mr. Diggle—and a hasty return to Spargus when you turn up urgent information.”

He nods once and then leaves and she takes a long breath.  It’s been a very long time since she discovered the secrets of Starling’s fallen leader, but she is still uncertain that a weapon of that magnitude should exist in the first place, much less under the city itself.  But she pushes them away because there is a more pressing need for celebration.

Planet damned to destruction or not, her son is still alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Uprising" - Muse  
> "Hail to the King" - Avenged Sevenfold  
> "Lost it All" - Black Veil Brides  
> “Walk Away” - Black Veil Brides  
> “Someplace Better” - Elysion


	3. Happy Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oliver finds out the woman he lost isn't dead. Which typically makes for a much happier ending than, "Everyone dies. Deal with it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, this is the conclusion I've been building up to for two chapters. I hope you think it was worth the wait. ;) Anyway, here's hoping you enjoy it. Again, thank you for all of the love and support. Happy reading, my dears! :)

Oliver and Roy meet again at the Stadium, perhaps the only sector of the city that hasn't suffered under Slade's reign. It's an elaborate building with an orange dome of the top of it, an entrance and exit on either side. Since night has fallen, there are few people milling around, and Oliver finds he likes it that way. It means that the patrols aren't going to be as thick.

Roy points to the front area, a collection of three buildings, the one in the center massive and circular. "Those are the garages where the racers keep their cars and equipment." He points to the larger, center section that takes up two or three stories, with the entire lower floor looking like a garage. "The other racers each get a garage, but the on-site mechanic gets an entire building—especially if they have a good team." He grins. "I race for Blondie, so she _definitely_ has a good team."

He shrugs. "We don't have the unlimited budget of Slade's team, but we win enough to be the only decent competition left in this city. Palmer—the city's star racer—would like her to work for him, since she's the best mechanic in the city, but she won't work for Slade." He hesitates. "Even I don't know the full story, but she... lost someone important to her during the war, and she's probably the most vocal opposition Slade has against him right now." He chuckles. "Blondie has been arrested five or six times, but Palmer always cuts her loose before she goes to jail." Then he goes back to his previous thought: "Blondie won't say, but the guy that died? I think she was in love, and I think it kind of destroyed her."

Oliver thinks it makes for an interesting story; they're putting the two worst threats against Slade together to see what destruction can be done. He doesn't expect a loud-mouthed blonde will be of much use, but he holds out hope that she'll prove of some benefit for housing. "Know the feeling," Oliver mutters quietly in response to that last thought, thinking of his own losses. "Five years ago, I had a family, a purpose as the Arrow, and a team to help me." He sighs deeply. "Now I'm an orphan and my team is gone—either dead or disbanded. All I have is Thea, a green hood, and a bow."

That catches Roy's attention, and he turns on Oliver with narrowed eyes as they walk into the pathway between the center and east outbuildings. "You aren't just a normal guy, are you?" he asks finally. "You know Merlyn by a nickname, Lance from his old days as a palace guard, and Slade hated you enough to use you in the Dark Warrior program after torturing you for five years. Digg knew your dad, and he ran in pretty powerful circles back in the day." He crosses his arms. "Your parents were big names in this city, weren't they?"

Oliver wants to tell him, but doing so could potentially endanger Thea. So, instead, he answers with, "We had a lot to lose in this war, and we lost it all."

Roy doesn't pry further, instead raising the garage door up far enough for them to enter before sliding it back down. He flips the switch for a set of lights, exposing a beautiful, sleek, black racer. "Nice, isn't it?" Roy asks when he follows Oliver's gaze. "That is Blondie's new prototype, and it's next-gen technology—better than anything Slade has in his garage. She's still working out the bugs, though." He waves Oliver over toward a hallway. "You can ask her about it—she likes to talk cars and general technology geekery."

He follows, and Roy talks over his shoulder. "So, you probably need to know that Blondie is a bit... prickly with new people. Takes her a while to warm up to new faces, so give her time. But you can get her going faster if you talk about your hatred of Slade or her cars. Or weaponry—Blondie knows her guns."

As they start up a staircase, Oliver asks, "Does she actually have a name?" The idea of referring to someone as "Blondie" doesn't exactly appeal to him, and it would be nice if he actually knew who she was.

Roy shrugs as he leads them through the second floor hall. "Everyone does," he answers. "But the name she uses is an alias, so most of us call her Blondie—or Oracle, since she always seems to know what goes on in this city."

Before anything more can be said, Roy turns the door handle to the only room with lights on. It opens into some sort of weapons storage room, and two women are centered around the table with disassembled gun parts around them. The first is presumably the owner of the garage; her blonde ponytail is unmistakable, and she wears black glasses and a purple dress that clings to her figure like a second skin.

The second woman is Thea.

Thea struggles with the weapon in her hands, and the other woman puts her hand over Thea's. "That connection isn't right," she says, and Oliver stills when he recognizes the voice, all the while knowing he has to be wrong. "If you're going to put those seams together, you'll have to weld them." She takes the gun from the table, along with what Oliver hopes is a blank round. She turns toward one of the empty walls and fires, and the end comes off as the bullet fires. "That's not stable enough." She drops the gun back on the table. "Try again."

Thea pauses for a moment, staring at her options, then reaches for one that clicks into place. "Is that better?" she asks. "I heard it snap together."

The blonde nods approvingly. "Much better," she answers. "You're getting better at this, Thea. I told you—it's just like building a computer: once you've done it, you never forget how." Thea makes a face, and the blonde amends, "Well, more like making a cocktail for you, but I've never been big on cocktails. A nice red, however, and I’m your girl.” She waves a hand frantically. “Well, I mean, I’m not _your girl_ —I wasn’t hitting on you or anything.”

Roy can’t help a chuckle, and she turns on the spot with narrowed eyes. It causes Oliver to freeze because that’s _definitely_ her. Her hair may be blonde instead of black with purple streaks and her lipstick might be a garish fuchsia instead of black, but she is every bit the face Oliver never thought he’d see again.

Because Felicity Smoak is most certainly not dead.

Her eyes narrow the moment they land on Oliver, and so many emotions war across her face that he has no idea what she’s going to say. “Get him out of here,” she says in a flat tone. It cuts him deeper than any knife, and he realizes she has no clue who is wearing the hood. When no one moves, she says louder, “Get him out of here _now_.” Her hands start making wild motions as she struggles for words—a rarity for her. “I’ll still house him for you, but he needs to come back when he’s not wearing”—she motions wildly toward Oliver—” _that_.” She turns on him. “There’s only one person worthy of wearing that getup, and he died five years ago. And you know what? I want that suit when you’re done with it—if I’d known Lance would dig it out and give it to the first guy who walked in, I would have pulled it out of that goddamn hole with me and burned it myself.”

He feels a swell of pride for the fiery little blonde; even though she thinks he’s dead, her loyalty still extends, snarling and yelling at the man she thinks to be an impostor in his suit. It causes emotions to rise to the surface that he thought were long since buried, but, as always, Felicity has a way of awakening his feelings.

No one moves or speaks, and Oliver realizes it’s up to him to diffuse the situation. He takes a deep breath before stepping forward, and she immediately takes a step back, her expression stony as ever. Quietly, he offers her the only words he can think of, ones he’s said to her on multiple occasions: “I’m not dead yet, Felicity.” Her eyes go round as saucers, and finally he finds the courage to pull back the hood.

Her arm flies out to grip the side of the table for support, and her hand goes to her heart, bringing Oliver’s attention to the cutout just under her collarbone for the first time as a side effect. Finally, between shallow gasps of air, she manages to breathe out a quiet, hesitant, “Oliver?” He watches as her eyes start to take on a wet appearance, as the realization starts to kick in when he nods. In an instant, she wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him tight against her with shaky breaths.

In three years of working together, touches had become commonplace between them—clasping hands, a touch of the shoulder or upper arm, and even the occasional cupping of the face—but she’s _never_ hugged him before. At first he tenses because physical contact hasn’t been pleasant in the past five years, but then his arms wind around her. His hand between her shoulder blades presses her into him, clinging to her for a moment the same way she clings to him.

Finally—after both too long and never long enough—she pulls away from him, letting her hands linger on his upper arms as though she’s still trying to convince herself he’s real. “I thought you were gone,” she admits finally, then shakes her head in anger aimed at herself. “I should have known better. If I’d known you were alive, I would have—”

She breaks off when he cups her face in his hand, biting her lip. It surprises him that she leans into the touch, letting it overtake her for just a moment. “I’ve spent the past five years hoping you made it out alive,” he admits quietly, so low that no one else can hear him, “and Lance told me you didn’t.” He doesn’t have to say any more; they both know that it nearly killed him—probably a similar feeling to what Felicity has been living with for the past five years.

She offers him a hesitant smile. “I’m not dead yet, Oliver,” she answers, and he feels a chuckle leave him.

A clearing of a throat reminds him that they have an audience, and Thea’s expression lets him know that he’s in for a very intense conversation the next time they’re alone. Slade’s interrogators could learn a lot from his little sister—she could probably make them cry with one look. “I was going to ask if you two knew each other,” she says finally, “but I think that’s pretty clear.”

Felicity pulls away from him, flushing as she tries to ignore Thea. “I’ll help you get settled,” she says finally. “This entire floor is filled with apartments, so I’m sure there’s one around here you can use.” She turns back to Thea, addressing her in a subtle dismissal. “We’ll work on your gun-building skills later.”

Thea studies her brother for a long moment before finally saying, “I think you’re moving up in the world, Ollie.” She crosses her arms. “I usually hate the women you sleep with, but I guess I can make an exception this time.”

Oliver doesn’t know who responds more impressively: Felicity sputters and turns scarlet, while he fixes a glare on his sister. “Felicity is someone I can trust,” he corrects her firmly, but she rolls her eyes like he’s lying to her.

“Whatever you say,” is her sarcastic reply, and she takes Roy by the elbow. “Come on, let’s give these two time to catch up before they kill us with the eye sex.” Oliver glares at her when Felicity finds something incredibly fascinating about the crack on the opposite wall, and Thea shrugs.

Roy stops. “Just one question,” he tries, and his attention is on Felicity. “Is this _the guy?_ " His tone is loaded with something Oliver doesn’t quite understand, and it’s obvious that the two are being cryptic on purpose. Finally, Felicity nods, and then he pulls Thea along with only a, “See you in the morning, Oliver. Bye, Blondie.”

Felicity won’t look at him, her face still heated, and finally she turns toward the same door Thea and Roy just used. “So, yeah, you need a room,” she mutters under her breath. Louder, she continues, “Come on, I’ll show you to the apartment next to mine—I’d feel better if you weren’t halfway across the building from me.” She takes his hand, and he enjoys the feel of her fingers intertwined with his a little more than he probably should.

She pulls him through an elaborate system of winding hallways to the other end of the building, where one of the chambers is lit. He expects her to open the one next to it for him to stay there, but instead she opens the door to her own apartment. The colors are bold and varying, and the rooms are small, but it's been a long time since Oliver has felt so comfortable with anyone.

Felicity motions him into a back room, and he notices too late that it's her bedroom, a very private space. He hesitates at the doorway, but she either doesn't see or chooses to ignore it, pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a gray hoodie, both of which look suspiciously like articles of clothing he had stored at their former base of operations.

The color to her face confirms it, but neither one deigns fit to comment on it—in Oliver's case, because he's afraid it will lead to something he's not ready to address now. The man he was five years ago would have broken down and kissed her right then, but there's so much to think about now. He has no idea if she has anyone in her life, and then there's his newest development—the one that apparently made him into a monster—to contend with.

"I thought you might want to take a shower and clean up," she says after a very long moment. "No offense, but it looks like it's been a while since you've had any of the comforts of home." She motions through the opposite doorway, to a small room off of her bedroom. "Bathroom is through there—take as long as you need." She bites her lip. "I'll just..." She sighs deeply. "I barely have any food right now, but I can go out to the Big Belly Burger in the port district—it shouldn't take me too long."

Only then does Oliver step into the room, taking the clothes from her hands. "Thank you," he says after a very long moment. He doesn't know what else to say because kindness is a rarity in this new world Slade created—a world where kindness is viewed as weakness.

She stares at him for a long moment before touching his arm. "I'm just glad to have you back, Oliver," she answers simply, and it takes all of his tenuous restraint not to kiss her, the way she keeps looking at him like that—as though her world is right again.

As he watches her leave the room, he can't help but think the same thing about his own.

 

* * *

 

It's about twenty minutes later when Felicity walks back into her apartment in the massive stadium, but she expects Oliver to still be in the bathroom. She hadn't wanted to say, but he had smelled like the swamp of the pumping station that she's used to washing out of Roy's clothes, and she figured he was in need of a meal, too.

But none of that matters because he's _alive_.

For five years, she's been dealing with the agony of losing him, of being the one to try and move on. In one of his darker moments during their partnership, he had once said something to a similar effect, and it's spent the past five years haunting her: _This only ends one way, Felicity, and it's with you standing over my grave_. Losing him was something she thought she'd come to terms with ages ago, but the hypothetical was _nothing_ like the reality of the situation. In the past five years, she's decided that the reason for that is as complex as it is simple.

Oliver was her entire world five years ago.

Though it sounds sappy and cliché to her when she hears the direction of her own thoughts, she doesn't mean it in the emotionally attached, dimestore-romance-novel sense. Five years ago, she was working at the power station running coded segment, and Mr. Queen—and later, Oliver—had come to ask about the city's power grid almost daily, wanting to know how to improve it to run on the reduced amount of Eco.

On top of that, she ended up spending most of her nights with him, too—either on one end of a comm while he fought the city's criminals, or down in the lair with dinner of some sort while he ran practice drills and she updated her computers, or at the power station while she finished up computer work. Sometimes he would show up at the door to walk with her to work, or, if it was raining and because she didn't have a vehicle, he would show up to drive her to the industrial sector.

Very rarely did a day go by that she didn't talk to him in some form—either in person or by comm. Case in point, Oliver had been a fixture in her life, just as much as her computers or her setup at the power station or her little computer nerd area in the lair.

When the city had fallen, she'd lost all of them in one fell swoop.

But she decides to focus on the positive, on the fact that, yes, she lost a lot when the walls were destroyed, but now she has at least part of it back. And, given all the things she lost in the chaos, Oliver is the one she that she would have done anything to bring back, if it were possible.

(Even help Slade, which shows how desperate she was.)

She wants to let him know she made it back bearing _ridiculously_ good-smelling food before she ends up eating both of their burgers, so she first drops the bag on her kitchen table, loath as she is to let the food go. Then she wanders toward her bedroom, not hesitating to open the door and walk in.

She quickly rethinks that when she's immediately met with Oliver's bare back, and she turns on the spot before her eyes are tempted to drift lower and determine how much of a state of undress he's in. "I thought you were still in the shower," she squeaks out, wincing when her voice comes out high-pitched and shrill. "I was just going to let you know that I'm back—which you're obviously now aware of—not barge in on you. Not that I wouldn't—" Three years of foot-in-mouth disease around Oliver Queen comes back to her, and self-preservation kicks in before she can end that sentence. _Not that I wouldn't mind seeing more of you_ , was the only end in mind for that phrase, and she's glad it didn't come out this time.

A hand catches her elbow, slowly pulling her around to look at him. She's surprised that he actually seems to be smiling; before, the lines in his face seemed nearly etched in, but he looks very similar to the old Oliver she knew and loved with a smile on his face.

As in the old phrase, "knew and loved." Not, you know, like _knew_ and _loved_ , but _knew and loved_. In the platonic sense.

"You didn't barge in on anything," he assures her quietly, and he walks back toward the bed to grab the hoodie. It's only then that she becomes aware of the fact he's in sweatpants, and that there are scars across his back—ones that weren't there before. Some are older than others, some red and angry, some white and nearly invisible. But her eyes fall on each and every one of them.

All she can feel is anger for a moment, anger that somewhere in the last five years, someone was doing this to Oliver and she didn't even know he was alive. If she'd known, she would have saved him—pulled him out of that version of Hell by any means necessary—but instead she sat in her warm apartment, safe and without a care in the world while someone _did this_ to him.

When he turns back toward her—hesitant now that he knows she's seen the scars—she already has her composure back, and she crosses her arms. “I want you to tell me who did this to you,” she says in the most relaxed voice she can manage, “and then I want their social security numbers and a list of their fears.” Somehow she still manages to come off as light, even though they both know she isn’t joking. “You give me that, and I'll take care of the rest.”

A ghost of a smile crosses his lips before he makes a quiet confession. “It’s been a tough ride,” he admits after a long moment, and she knows it’s the closest he’ll ever be to admitting half of the agony he suffered. Then he hesitates, rubbing his thumb against his index fingers in a nervous gesture that says too much and not near enough at the same time. “And that’s not even the worst part of it.”

She knows that look, even after so long apart—it’s a staple of Oliver Queen signature looks, the I-need-to-tell-you-something-but-I-have-no-idea-how look. She could easily start demanding answers from him, but instead she drops down on the bed, motioning for him to join her. “I know it’s hard to tell sometimes, with all the babbling,” Felicity begins, “but you know I’m a good listener, right?”

He joins her immediately, offering a nervous chuckle either at the upcoming words or their suddenly close proximity. His knee brushes against hers, and it strikes her for a moment that they really don’t sit this close to one another on normal occasions. But, then again, she doubts anything is normal—he’s been dead for five years and she used to help him run around and play hero to the city.

“Normal” is kind of a relative term at this point, Felicity decides.

He’s so hesitant, so loath to admit whatever-it-is to her that she knows it isn’t going to be good, that it’s going to tear either him or her (possibly both) apart. “I’ve spent the past five years as Slade’s prisoner,” he admits, and she takes a shaky breath. If he’s starting out with this, then worse is sure to follow. “While I was there, he… he did something to me.” He frowns. “Roy called it the Dark Warrior program.”

Felicity tries to keep the expression off of her face so that he doesn’t see her initial reaction. The Dark Warrior program is something she’s been hearing about for years, between muttered breaths and given to her by masked men in alleyways who pass along information to the Underground through her. Either way, the stories have always been in more rumor than fact. Based on what she’s learned, it’s either monsters, super-soldiers, bionic weapons, or modified mind control. (She’s hesitant to believe the last one. Mind control? Honestly, who comes up with that shit?) But one fact is certain, no matter which version she hears: the Dark Warrior program’s only success has been leaving a trail of bodies in its wake.

And Oliver is very much alive.

She frowns, deciding to go with fact. “No one has ever survived the program before,” she breathes. She watches him carefully, reaching out to take his hand in comfort. He lets her, not surprisingly, but the expression on his face doesn’t change.

He chuckles bitterly after a long moment. “I was the lucky winner,” he answers, his voice dark enough to send a shiver down her spine. “I thought it was just torture, but he pumped me full of Dark Eco.” Felicity bites down on her lip, fighting the urge to say it explains the trail of bodies—Slade has been experimenting with the most volatile, toxic substance known to man. “I didn’t realize what he’d done, but then Roy and I ran into those guards earlier, and—” He cuts off abruptly, not looking at her.

She’s heard the reports—the upped patrols, the eyewitness accounts of a monster slaughtering twenty guards on the streets—but now they’re making sense. But she realizes it wasn’t a monster who was slaughtering those men.

It was some dark, twisted version of Oliver that Slade created.

First she takes a moment to marvel at the irony—the one thing Slade wanted most was the one thing he couldn’t control once he had it in his grasp. Then she realizes that Oliver hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved, since he last spoke. She squeezes his hand to urge him on, and with a sigh he continues, “I don’t know what happened. I don’t even remember it—it came to me in bits and pieces later, like a dream. I just—” He hesitates. “I became someone—some _thing_ —else.” He releases her hand to run his own down his face, then lock them behind his neck. “I’m exactly the kind of monster I tried to protect this city from.”

“No you’re not,” she states firmly. “You didn’t choose this, Oliver, and I know you can figure out how to control it. Slade has never controlled you before—no one has—and he won’t even control you through those Dark Eco injections.”

He studies her for a long moment. “You don’t think I’m a monster?” he breathes, almost as though he’s afraid of the answer.

“A monster would take this power and be proud of it,” she answers, not understanding his question. “You’re afraid and ashamed of it. That’s someone who has been through Hell, Oliver, not a monster.”

His response is to cup her face with both hands, and suddenly his mouth is on hers. The kiss lasts only a few seconds—so short that she thinks her fantasies are already starting up again—but then he’s halfway across the room, facing away from her. “I missed you, Felicity,” he says after a long moment, and Felicity understands it as his explanation.

“I missed you, too, Oliver,” she answers finally, after rising from the bed herself. Then she crosses her arms. “Does that mean I get to kiss _you_ and pull away abruptly now, too?”

He turns back to her immediately, and she offers him a tentative smile. “Five years didn't change the important things,” she says finally. The things that mattered five years ago are things that will never, ever falter: The way she looks at him is still the same, as is the way _he_ looks at _her_. The little touches and their feelings for one another are a constant, no matter what time has done to them. Whatever… _tension_ had settled quietly between them five years ago is still very much there. But this time, Felicity knows what it’s like to lose him before they ever decided to act on said tension.

And she’s not going to let that happen again.

Oliver turns back to her slowly, carefully weighing her expression. “And you’re important to me,” he answers hesitantly, though they both know he means more than that—in a way that neither of them would be able to hear yet. He hesitates again before adding, "I can't lose you again."

The words are out of her mouth as soon as she thinks them: "So don't, Oliver." Her tone is a clear challenge, and she's surprised by how... _flirtatious_ her own voice sounds. It's been so long since she's flirted with anyone that it sounds foreign to her.

His eyes darken, and the responding shiver that crawls down her spine has _nothing_ to do with fear. Even in his Arrow-induced, righteous-fury glory, when he had been hopped up on adrenalin and trying to intimidate her, she had never been afraid. She sees no reason to start now, especially when he's looking at her with that sort of intent.

Felicity has always thought of Oliver as an interesting dichotomy: both hard and soft, strong yet weak, gentle yet brutal, kind yet unforgiving, both contained and volatile. She's seen every possible side of him, and, instead of making him more transparent to her, it only serves to make him a larger enigma.

When he kisses her this time, she expects it to be like the last one: feather-light touches of mouths that leave her wanting more. This time, however, Oliver chooses to show her the other side of his nature, the rougher side of himself. His mouth crashes against hers, the kiss this time demanding and insistent.

Which leaves her wanting more in an entirely new way.

Her hands greedily reach across his chest, ignoring the scarring and focusing on the sensation of Oliver Queen invading her senses completely. One of his hands applies pressure to the back of her head while the other grips her hip, thumb rubbing circles into it.

Her attention is so focused on the fact that Oliver is kissing her that she doesn't realize she's moving backwards until her legs press against the edge of the bed. She falters for a moment, then decides that this is _exactly_ what she wants. She expresses that by returning the kiss a little more eagerly, smiling before nipping playfully at his bottom lip.

His response is a soft groan she more feels than hears, which sends a shiver down her spine.

She expects him to be encouraged by her response, and he doesn't disappoint. However, he does manage to surprise her when his hand starts to wander down from her hip. Then she jumps when his hand touches her bare skin, kneading her thigh just below the hem of her dress. He drops his hand so slowly that she barely notices it, her attention more focused on what is mouth is doing to her own.

In one fluid motion, he pulls her leg over his hip. It's so sudden that Felicity can't prepare for it, and her balance slips. Apparently Oliver isn't prepared to support her full weight, either, because suddenly she's on the bed and Oliver is on top of her. Felicity's eyes go wide and they break apart, though he still has her leg over his hip and he still hovers over her.

"I wasn't prepared to..." he starts when he finally catches his breath, trailing off hesitantly when he isn't sure how to end that sentence. "I meant to take this slow," he admits after a long pause. While she knew there was nothing one-night-stand about the situation, it still makes her breath stutter a little to hear him confirm it. After all, knowing and hearing something are two very different things.

He starts to say something more, but she cuts him off. "Oliver, it's been five years," she reminds him. "I think we've taken things slow enough."

The blistering kiss she receives in response lets her know he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playlist:
> 
> "Here Without You" - 3 Doors Down  
> “Let Me in Your Heart Again” - Queen  
> "Rebel Love Song" - Black Veil Brides  
> “Savages” - Theory of a Deadman feat. Alice Cooper  
> “Goodbye Agony” - Black Veil Brides


End file.
